


A Matter of Shirts

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: What happens when Watson finds himself without a shirt…</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Shirts

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked for H/W pwp to cheer them up over at the kink meme. P0rn!, said I; I can do that!

It is early morning, quiet, slow, and Watson is enjoying a small moment to himself, alone except for tea and breakfast and paper.

And then he is not alone. Holmes storms into the room, far from cheerful, and what is he even doing up at this hour? Watson turns down a corner of his paper; Holmes certainly doesn't look happy about being awake. He flips the corner back, determined to ignore the other's foul mood as long as possible. Which turns out to be not long at all, as Holmes' next act is to sit across from him, knocking the table just as Watson sets his cup down, and now his paper and his shirt are dripping. He flings down the paper and pushes away from the table. "Holmes!"

Holmes mutters something unintelligible and glares. Watson glares right back, then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. At least the tea hadn't been hot… "I am going to change," he tells Holmes, "and when I come back, I hope that you will either be in a better mood or gone." He turns and strides to the bedroom, stripping off his wet, stained shirt as he goes, and quickly discovers that most of shirts are not so mysteriously missing, and the ones that remain have easily identifiable stains – stains that he had nothing to do with. His irritation flares and he gathers several shirts as he marches back into the hallway. "Holmes!" he shouts; Holmes pokes his head out onto the landing. "What have you done with my shirts this time? Why must you always steal them? Well?" and it dawns on Watson that Holmes isn't paying attention; rather, he is paying attention, but not to the subject of shirts.

He is wary as Holmes walks towards him, and when Holmes places one hand against his abdomen, palm aligned against the edge of his sternum, he sucks in a breath, startled; Holmes is watching his hand, only slightly paler against Watson's skin, and it is like a brand of ownership. Watson wonders if he will wear a reddened imprint when Holmes finally lifts his hand, but he's not about to find out, because Holmes is pressing his hand against him, pushing him back, and he takes a few stumbling steps backward, bumping off the door frame of his office, and Holmes is still pressing him back. Holmes stops for a moment, kicking the door shut with unnecessary force, hand never shifting, and leans close, leans down, tongue darting out to taste a hardening nipple. Watson gasps, one hand shooting up to stop him or urge him on - he's not sure which, but never gets the chance as Holmes catches it, drawing it to rest against his own shirt, and Watson decides to do something about the buttons beneath his fingers.

He is quickly distracted, however, by the warm breath Holmes sends over the damp skin of his chest, shivers crawling up his spine, his breaths becoming pants, pants interspersed with moans, his body shifting in need. Holmes slides the hand on his chest down, fingers catching on the band of Watson's trousers, and Watson hopes for a wild moment before Holmes' hand follows the band, brushing his hip, settling just below the small of Watson's back. Watson whines, and Holmes takes pity on him, leaning forward more to press his lips to Watson's, to open his mouth, explore the taste of Watson with his tongue.

Watson is overwhelmed, leaning into Holmes, but he knows if he doesn't find some support soon he is going to collapse under the combined forces of his bad leg and Holmes' knee buckling kisses. He reaches behind him, searching, and his hand finds the edge of his desk, not far at all. He backs slightly, pulling Holmes with him, until he is leaning against it, and Holmes keeps pushing him, pushing until Watson places one hand on the edge, levering himself into a position that is half leaning, half sitting on the desk, Holmes is spreading Watson's legs to stand between them, pressed close against his skin. His hands are teasing out small sounds from Watson, rubbing over painfully hard nipples and prominent vertebra, swallowing the sounds as they emerge, muffled by his lips.

Holmes leans forward more, causing Watson to over balance, and Watson half falls back onto his elbows, hearing things roll off his desk, bouncing as they hit the floor, and there are papers sticking to the damp skin of his back. Holmes pulls his hand away from exploring Watson's back, instead learning how quickly he can undo Watson's belt one handed, how long it takes to undo his trousers, pull Watson's cock free from clothing. Watson groans at the feeling of hand, and then cries out something wordless as Holmes leans down and covers his cock with wet heat. Watson closes his eyes, his hands crinkling paper, and he thinks he may come right now if Holmes is not very careful, but Holmes is always very careful, and instead he arches into Holmes' teasing mouth, wanting more. Holmes is quick to use his rising hips as an opportunity to pull his trousers down more, sliding them off entirely, and now Watson is naked, thinking that it's hardly fair that Holmes is still more than half dressed. He shudders under Holmes' assault, his good leg coming up, propped against the table, and Holmes is captivated by the spread of Watson's thighs, distracted enough to kiss his way down to one knee, and then back up, leaving red marks and tingling skin. He kisses his way up the length of Watson's cock, never fully sucking him, fragments of heat here and there and driving Watson mad.

Watson curses and reaches down, fumbling at the drawers, searching blindly, mindlessly for something, and he finally finds it; a small tin of something slick and harmless. Holmes has been watching him, and takes it from Watson's nerveless fingers, coating his own, pressing Watson's legs further apart, further up, long, clever, wicked fingers teasing, sliding over the tight muscle of Watson's hole, sliding in, smooth and careful and stroking, coaxing ever more needy and incoherent sounds from Watson, until he cannot stand to wait another second. Holmes slides another slick handful onto his own cock, pulling himself the rest of the way onto the desk, knees braced against the wood, shaking with the need to hold back as he slides into Watson, who is not helping at all, trembling and whining and twisting under him, and Holmes is finally, finally buried deep inside Watson, panting, unmoving. He waits for a moment, a long moment that feels like forever to Watson, then leans in and kisses Watson, wet and helplessly out of control, his hand sliding across the slick tip of Watson' cock, and that is all it takes to send Watson over the edge, his breath escaping in a shout, fingers and toes curling, griping the edges of the desk, every muscle tightening just shy of painfully, semen catching between their bellies, warm and slick, and Holmes is panting hard against Watson's shoulder as he rides the aftershocks of Watson's orgasm, still deep inside him, until Watson stills. Holmes takes a long, shuddering breath, and begins to move, sliding in and out, firm, but not fast, every stroke a shifting variation on the one before, an infinite circle of pleasure, and Watson is limp under him, glassy eyed and utterly debauched, and Holmes is so close, so close. He leans down and bites at Watson's neck, and the sound Watson makes is enough to send heat spiraling down Holmes' spine, enough to still the breath in his lungs, enough to send him completely out of control, and he stiffens, body curling tautly as he comes.

His arms have become useless; he collapses, shaking, on top of Watson, and they simply lie for several moments, drained, limp, tangled limbs and unsteady breaths. Blinking, Watson clears his throat, and his voice is still husky, still drawn with desire.

"Not that I object, Holmes, but I'm thinking a bed might be more comfortable for the next round."

Holmes laughs soundlessly against Watson's collarbone.


End file.
